Work Text:
Kirill’s apartment was cold despite the August heat when he returned from Russia on Monday. He half wondered if someone had taken the liberty to turn on the air conditioning in his absence. Walking past the art someone else had picked out and hung on his wall, he dropped his bags by the island counter. Almost everything in his Minneapolis apartment had been compiled by what he had heard the other European players refer to as the ‘welcoming committee’. He didn’t really mind. Adding personal touches to his space almost felt like overstepping, especially when he didn’t know how long he would be staying.
In Russia, he lived in the ‘общежития’, or the dormitories, during the season. These were larger buildings with as many rooms of billets stacked on top of each other as would fit. Messy attempts at cooking were conducted in the floor’s kitchen and game film and sometimes just films viewed in the common room. Kirill used to fall asleep watching the slow rise of his line mate’s chest on the cot next to his. His new living space felt all too big. Leaving his equipment bag on the ground, he shouldered his duffle and rounded the corner to begin unpacking.
The contract he signed yesterday had started to make his skin itch as Kirill laid in bed after the twelve hour media frenzy that was Wednesday. Speaking English still made him feel uneasy. He was never fully sure that he was saying want he wanted to. Listening was much easier. He had done several interviews throughout the day and was afraid he had said the wrong word or given the wrong answer to the myriad questions about his new contract.
Five years. Minnesota would be his home for the next five years. It was a fact that he had yet to wrap his mind around. He knew many NHL players spent their entire careers in the pursuit of such a contract. He knew he should feel like he just won the lottery. The only thing he could feel as he stretched his legs against his mattress was a vague sense of nausea. Everyone back home had encouraged his decision to trade the kontinental league for the one overseas. He had done almost everything he could in Russia; he’d been determined to leave his mark before moving on. All of his trophies, medals, and plaques were now in boxes in his parents’ house. Russian awards held no weight on American shelves. He had to earn new ones. Already he had tried to bring this club to a cup, only to leave in the first round. The so-called “State of Hockey”, with almost as many seasons as Kirill had birthdays, was still without a cup. But if he learned anything during his seasons with Moscow, it was that trying the same thing over and over is not insanity, it’s hockey. He would try to bring this desolate team to the top until his five years were up. He ripped his sheets off and beelined across the hall to the bathroom. Kirill sunk to his knees just in time.
Training camp was easy. Five hours of dry land, break, three hours of ice time, go home, sleep, repeat. It was easy for Kirill to put himself on auto pilot through the off ice drills. His feet carried him across the pavement and his thoughts raced along side of him. His teammates were eyeing him constantly, the looks often paired with hushed words. The little English he felt confident with was hockey centered. He could understand the coaches enough to know where to skate, and his teammates enough to know when to pass and when to take the shot. He also knew numbers. When he heard “forty-five” he knew it wasn’t the jersey number.
On Wednesday, the team was lined up on the fake turf for parachute sprints. Kirill was beginning to feel like a lab rat in the large white field house. There were cameras on the ground at the beginning and end of the marked off 100 meter area. The small monitor wrapped around each player’s chest measured their heat rate and breathing. It also timed their distance between the lenses. Additional cameras floated around the complex, news outlets wanting to capture a day of NHL training camp. Kirill did his best to avoid them.
Standing in the line after a sprint, he focused on catching his breath rather than the eyes of his teammates and the reporters, which always seemed to be focused on him. He was hyper-aware of everyone around him. Marcus Foligno and Jordan Greenway we’re standing in front of him, Jared Spurgeon and Matt Dumba behind him. Marcus and Jordan were discussing an American football game with a few others around them and the captain and his alternate were talking in hushed tones. He could pick out some pieces of English.
“Does he seem like a contract hopper to you?” Matt spoke quietly and quickly.
“No,” Jared’s voice was softer. “I didn’t say that.”
He tuned out the rest, not wanting to waste energy translating and deciphering the fast English. Contract hopper. His mouth filled with the taste of blood after his next sprint.
The locker room in the Tria center had different stall assignments than the one in the Xcel. For practices, Kirill sat next to Mats Zuccarello. On Mats’s other side was Kevin Fiala. He’d grown to appreciate that without American players present, English was not an expectation. Bits of Swedish, Finnish, and even scraps of Russian and German were passed around the corner the European players were assigned to. He was especially grateful at the end of the day, when all the thoughts in his head were homesick longings in Russian.
Dean Evason called Kirill, Mats, and Joel Eriksson Ek into his office separately after practice on Thursday. Kirill had already had a lot of one-on-one time with the head coach. There were several meetings that included the two of them during the days of negotiating his contract. His temporary office in the Tria rink was a lot more cramped and a lot less extravagant than the meeting rooms in the Xcel Center.
Kirill knocked on the metal door. “It’s open.” He entered. “Kirill, wonder boy. How are you liking camp so far?” Dean’s smile was too wide for Kirill’s taste.
“S’good,” he nodded, reassuring himself in his answer. Dean’s smile stretched even further.
“Good, good.” He clamped his hands together on the desk and Kirill gripped his knees in the chair. “How do you feel about Mats?”
Kirill raised his eyebrows, feeling his face heat. He wasn’t used to his coach asking how he felt, he usually told him how to feel. “Good,” he repeated. “Fast.”
Dean leaned forward slightly in his leather chair and lowered his voice, as though he were telling a secret. “We’re thinking of putting you on a line with him and Joel. Does that sound good?” Kirill had a feeling he couldn’t say no so he simply nodded. “Okay!” Dean raised his hands in excitement. “We’ll run some scrimmages tomorrow. I’ll see you then.”
Kirill’s feet felt like they didn’t quite reach the ground as he left the rink and took a car home. Somewhere in the back of his mind, hope had been growing since the previous season that he would be put on a more permanent line with Mats. He liked the way he carried himself, on and off the ice. He liked the way his wild curls grew from the back of his helmet. He liked the way his forehead crinkled when he was trying to explain something to Kirill, in a non-patronizing slow drawl of English and Russian.
Kirill returned home in a daze. He showered off the now dried sweat from practice and stood in the middle of his room, unsure. His hands itched for something to do but he needed sleep in order to perform in the morning. Crawling under the covers he squeezed his eyes closed, hoping to shut out the yellow light of the city that always filtered through his blinds. After what felt like an eternity, he gave in and reached for his cell phone on the bedside table. He unlocked it with blurry vision and blinked until he could see the contents. 9:35 pm. He opened the text box and entered his new line mate’s name.
The next day left Kirill with little time to think about what he had gotten himself into the previous night. The training schedule was flipped to accommodate a public practice. A second practice had been added at the end of the day because according to Dean, no one had taken the open practice seriously.
When the coach finally dismissed them for the day, Mats tugged on Kirill’s jersey with a gloved fist before he could reach the bench.
“Practice plays?” He made a passing motion with his stick. Kirill had finally gathered the courage to send a text after rewriting it for twenty minutes. He simply asked if they could speak after the following practice. He figured this was his chance. The Russian nodded and the Norwegian showed his teeth in a lopsided grin. Something in Kirill’s stomach moved as Mats skated to the opposite end of the rink to speak with the zamboni driver, asking for just 30 more minutes. He returned with the same grin on his face and grabbed a bag of pucks. They practiced two man breakouts and behind the net plays. The only sounds in the all but empty rink were the grind of their blades against the ice and the slap of the puck against their tape.
The engine of the zamboni broke the quiet flow they had established on one of the circles. Their skates rasped to a halt. Mats looked up from the puck that was on Kirill’s stick and at his face. They hadn’t been working as hard as they had in practice but the exhaustion was still evident. The brunet pointed to the rest of the pucks that were scattered throughout the zone with his chin. The two silently collected them and pushed the nets back to the zamboni driver.
In the locker room, their stalls were next to each other. Kirill quickly grabbed his bag and slid down a few spots to Kuli’s stall. He needed more space from the other man. Mats didn’t acknowledge his move and they removed their gear in silence. After a few minutes the brunet looked up from his skate guards and asked, “You wanted to talk?” in Russian.
Kirill’s fingers froze on his laces. “Yeah,” he breathed. Mats didn’t offer anything to fill the silence, only raised his eye brows so he said the first thing that came to mind. “Do you like Russian food?”
Mats eyes lit up. Kirill finished taking his skates off and fished his phone from the pocket of his sweats. After helping Mats place an order, they showered. Wordlessly, they each chose stalls on opposite sides of the room. Kirill did his best to not look at his teammate through the steam, keeping his eyes on the grey bottle of shampoo. His stomach moved again when he caught a glimpse of the dip of Mats’ back as he walked back into the locker room in a towel. He turned the temperature of the water down. As he dressed himself, he felt oddly feminine when Mats turned to give him privacy. And again when he offered to drive.
Watching Mats navigate the ever present traffic between the twin cities was an experience. He wasn’t prone to road rage but the thin line between his eyebrows deepened in focus. He muttered to himself every so often in Norwegian, not meant for his passenger to understand. At times, he would look over at Kirill, his eyes softening instantly, almost as if he had forgotten the other man was there. Once, his hand drifted absentmindedly over the console between the seats. He caught himself and reached to turn the air conditioning up.
Moscow on the Hill was in no way a hidden gem. It was quite a popular location but the pandemic had affected it greatly. Kirill frequented it’s take-out option whenever he was feeling particularly homesick. Mats put his car in park when they arrived and Kirill returned moments later with a large bag. “My place is close.” He wasn’t sure what he hoped to accomplish by making the observation but Mats’ cheeks flushing slightly in the overhead lights wasn’t it. He pursed his lips, eyes searching Kirill’s face as he seemed to decide something.
“Okay,” Mats nodded. “Where?”
Kirill had to tighten his grip on his keys to stop them from shaking as he unlocked his door. He kicked a pair of shoes to the side and set the bag on the kitchen counter. “So. This is it.” He waved a dismissive hand at the living room, a sudden need for approval itched at him. “You want to watch something?” He asked, shifting his weight like he did during the anthem.
“Sure,” Mats paused, a grin creeping onto his bearded face. “Miracle?”
It took Kirill a second to translate the word and when it registered, a snort left him. “Ha ha,” he deadpanned. Mats chuckled to himself as Kirill took a few steps further into the living room to grab the TV remote. He lofted it at the Norwegian and his reflexes saved him a bruise. “Pick something,” he ordered half heartedly and padded back over to the bag and into the kitchen. Mats toed his shoes off and made himself confortable on the couch. Kirill went to work putting their take out orders onto real plates.
Now that he was no longer in Mats’ eyesight, he took a moment to breathe. His hands were still shaking. He didn’t know why it was such a big deal. Mats was in his apartment. Mats was on his couch. His other teammates hung out together all the time. He’d eaten countless dinners at home with the other players in Russia. He wasn’t sure if he was nervous because what they were doing felt wrong, or because he still wanted to do it. Still wrestling with his thoughts, he returned to the living room with the dishes. He set Mats’ next to his feet that were resting on the coffee table and carefully sat on the other end of the couch. Mats had yet to choose a title, seemed to be aimlessly scrolling through them without reading.
“I can never pick,” he confessed, tossing the remote between them and turning his attention to the food. “Buchnevich was the one who showed me real Russian food,” Kirill wasn’t sure if he was telling him or the plate. “In New York,” he clarified.
Kirill hummed. “Do you miss it?” He often forgot that Mats was almost as new to the Minnesota club as he was, with only one more season under his belt. New York wasn’t even his real home. On a rather empty flight during the previous season, Mats had lamented strong feelings of homesickness and painted a picture of the town where he grew up in Norway. Kirill wondered if he would ever miss Minnesota when his five years were gone.
“Yeah. I miss the team. Not much for the big city,” he said. Almost on cue, a swell of of sirens grew outside. Kirill nodded in agreement. “But I do love this team, don’t get me wrong.” Mats concluded.
Kirill nodded again and decided it was his turn to confess. “I am nervous for Saturday,” he said flatly.
Mats facial expression softened at the admission. He knew a new line was a large adjustment and they weren’t given much time. Two days to be exact. In his mind, their chemistry on the ice was obvious and the two were bound to be trialed together at some point. He was more than content to be on a line with Kirill and felt more confident after practicing one on one with him. He shifted his position so he was facing the blond and set his almost empty dish aside. “I understand. We’re good, though. We have plays.” He placed a hand on Kirill’s knee where it was bent on the cushion. “Я тебя вижу.”
Kirill’s skin felt like it was burning where Mats touched him. I see you. He wondered if he could see where his heart rattled against his ribs at the proximity. His body, like always, moved on its own account and his hand reached forward to grasp the other man’s bicep. Mats seemed to understand and shifted his position again, shoving into Kirill’s space. Kirill no longer wanted distance between them. Once the Norwegian was next to him, he reached up to card his trembling fingers through his own hair in an attempt to hide them. Mats leaned forward and replaced Kirill’s hand at the nape of his neck. “I see you,” he repeated quietly. He pulled back in an attempt to read his facial expression. Kirill’s eyes were fixed on Mats’ lips as his teeth worried at his own. He released his bottom lip in a breath as the brunet crowded in further. Kirill looked up to see Mats’ eyes scanning his face. He mentally counted to ‘три’ before surging forward.
Mats’ lips were rough. His beard was rough against Kirill’s chin. His hands were soft. It was only as they kissed that Kirill realized Mats’ hands were also shaking. One cupped Kirill’s jaw, gently holding him in place. The other grasped his ribs. The blond pushed further into his line mates space, tugging on his sweatshirt pocket to pull him closer. Mats seemed to understand, leaning into the touch. He snaked his arm further around Kirill’s waist. The stubble on Mats’ chin scraped across his own in a slow burn that made him gasp into the other’s mouth. Mats immediately pulled back. Kirill simply stared at his swollen lips.
“Faen. Shit, I’m sorry,” he removed his hands from where they were gripping his teammate.
Kirill’s eyebrows shot up. He didn’t understand why Mats was apologizing. “No, no,” he held his hands up, placatingly. “I like,” he stopped. What did he like? He knew he liked men. Even harboring feelings for a teammate wasn’t new to him. What was new was the requited feelings. “You.” He finished.
Mats looked down at his hands that were now resting in his lap. He sighed before looking back up at Kirill intently. “Does this even make sense?” he wondered out loud, gesturing between them.
Kirill deflated. So much for reciprocation, he thought.
“I just mean, you’re young and you kind of just got here. I don’t want to take any opportunities from you. I don’t want to take anything from you,” Mats spoke in one breath.
“Not taking anything,” Kirill countered. He leaned into Mats space again. Reaching for him, his hands settled on his wrists. “Don’t take this from me.”
Mats breath hit Kirill’s face as he initiated a brief staring contest, searching for doubt, or some bullshit in his eyes. There was none to be found. It all made sense to Kirill. Their level of play on the ice required a certain degree of closeness which was bound to translate off the ice. Mats seemed to finally come to the same conclusion. He gave into Kirill’s grip and let himself be pulled forward.